


Shade's Journal Four

by Devilc



Series: Shade's Journals [4]
Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Starman (Comics)
Genre: Bath Sex, Blow Jobs, Food Fight, Food Sex, Humor, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 16:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shade tries to have a romantic dinner with Jack.  It doesn't quite happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shade's Journal Four

**Author's Note:**

> At the time (1996-1997, the longest story I had ever written.

Resorting again to the use of that most wretched of inventions, the telephone, I called Jack and asked him if he were free this evening.

"Yeah, barring an attack of the 50 foot monster. Oh, get this, Clarence talked me into wearing a cell phone, so I might have to make a sudden exit."

I shuddered. "Well, whatever you do, Jack, don't sink to the level of a pager. How about 7:00 o'clock? I'll make all of the arrangements."

He agreed, and I set about making the preparations for this evening. I had something very special in mind, something different from our usual affairs. Ah, romance!

I arrived at seven sharp. Jack's flat was in its usual state of organized chaos and he wore his standard tank top and jeans. His blue, blue eyes held a look of mischievous anticipation and he greeted me with a gamine smile. He was clearly looking forward to this evening's "sexcapades" (Jack's way of terming it.)

"Uh, Shade, haven't you forgotten something?"

I arched an eyebrow in response.

"Hello. You said you were in charge of all the goodies this evening."

"Yes, I am." I kept my tone very neutral.

"Well, where's that wicker picnic basket of yours?"

"At my humble abode, which is where, by the way, dinner will be served."

Pause, and then Jack said in a small voice, "Oh."

Opening a door of shadow, I took him by the arm and drew him in. In the in-between space, I bent and licked his neck and discovered that he was wearing Old Spice, which smells the way men's cologne ought to, but does not please the palate. So much for lasciviousness. I arrived in my dining room desperately wishing for a place to spit. I excused myself and raced to the kitchen, Jack's laughter following me out of the room. I can only imagine the facial contortions that greeted his return to the world of light.

I returned and began uncovering the dishes on the table. Jack was admiring a Vermeer on the opposite wall. He turned to me, awed, "This is quite a place you've got here. I can't wait to see the rest of it."

"All things in good time, Jack. Dinner is served." I had worked all day on this meal, and hoped that Jack would not miss the movie reference I had in mind when I cooked. He did not disappoint. He turned and paused for a moment, idly scratching his head while he searched his memory. I could almost hear him thinking 'Now where have I seen this food before.' Then his handsome face lit up with an ear to ear grin

"Heyyyyyy, Tom Jones."

We sat down and he fell to with such relish, that I thought he had not eaten all day until it occurred to me that he was recreating the scene. With that, I put down my knife and fork, grabbed my chicken, and began devouring it with similar gusto. Half way through the meal, we glanced at each other, drunk, chins smeared with grease, mouths stuffed with more food than polite society allowed, and began, well, giggling. It subsided a bit, Jack took a huge gulp of Burgundy, and then for reasons known only to him began giggling again which caused him to spray the Burgundy out his nose. This, in turn sent the both of us into helpless laughter  truly we were drunk  I banged my fist on the table in my mirth, an act which sent my plate into my lap.

Both of us dissolved into hysterics. So much for our homage to Hollywood. Our attempts to talk just sent us off again. (Mutual finger pointing, and a few syllables which dissolved into laughter.)

When our laughter had subsided to the point where coherent thought could intrude into our world, I stood, took off my shoes, and removed my ruined pants.

"Well," I said to Jack, "I was planning on removing them anyway." As I went to sit down, he stood and kicked off his shoes (but not his socks) and pants. His boxers had a jolly roger motif. Fueled by wine, I sat down and made great show of removing my cravat and vest. Jack retaliated by removing his socks in a manner reminiscent of removing a used condom. Staring him in the eye, I slowly unbuttoned my shirt, depositing my cuff links  plink! plink!  in a goblet of water. Mischief writ large across his face, he ripped his tank top from his body. I stood and dropped my drawers. He responded by shedding his boxers, then said, "Watch this," and using the elastic waistband like a rubber band, sent them sailing across the room where they caught on the frame of the Vermeer and dangled. I know I could keep neither the astonishment nor the amusement from my face. He bowed and sat down, resuming his meal. I did likewise.

As I devoted all of my attention to extracting the flesh from a crab leg, an olive bounced off of my forehead and landed in my bowl of melted butter. The cheek of the whelp! He giggled away at his end of the table, oblivious to my digging a large serving spoon into a bowl of chocolate mousse (I had added a few specialties to the meal); with the archest of smiles I sent the mousse splatting across his chest, and the fight was on.

By the time we had run out of fowl to throw, sauces to fling, volleys of fruit, and dishes of traditionally starchy English fare to grub the other's face in, my dining room was a shambles. Miraculously, the Vermeer had escaped. With a sweep of my arm, I cleared what few dishes remained from the from the table and climbed up on it, indicating that Jack should join me.

I had not planned this. I had planned dinner and then a session on the oriental rug in front of a roaring fire (and perhaps a glass or two of Malmsey wine). I had not ruled out inaugurating my bed, too. Sigh. Improvisation, too, has its merits.

But back to Jack. I ran my finger through the chocolate mousse on his chest, scooping up a huge dollop. "I worked very hard on this, Jack, and I should hate that you not taste any here he sucked it off my finger, sending a shiver of pleasure coursing through my body  before I get the rest." And with that, I pushed him down on the table and helped myself to a mousse that would've made Julia Child green with envy. Unfortunately, a great deal of it had landed on his nipples, and I daresay it was hard to get them properly cleaned with him squirming and laughing. Pinning him down with my body, I went to work on the cherry tart which had caught him square in the shoulder. He responded by cleansing the gravy from my neck and shoulder.

Holding his head immobile, I went to work on his face, tenderly licking creamed spinach and potatoes from his cheeks, forehead and nose. He returned the favor by lapping the potatoes and blood pudding from mine. We kissed. It was delicious.

All in all, we licked each other quite thoroughly. (I must say that Jack could do incredible things with his tongue. I almost spent myself twice, and he was nowhere near my member at either time.) Eventually we ended up in a head to toe position, and I did something I had been wanting to do for some time, took Jack into my mouth.

I enjoyed the novelty; heretofore, I'd only done this for women. I stroked the salty firmness with my tongue and teeth, drinking in the musky smell, enjoying the sheer bulk of it. I caressed his balls with my free hand. He gasped with pleasure and grabbed my legs, and I, concentrating on my own pleasure  yes it was pleasurable, the feel of him in my mouth  idly let him maneuver me, giving no real thought to what he was doing until he drew my rigid sex into his warm soft mouth. I stiffened with pleasure. It is an almost indescribable experience  sucking and being sucked. Pleasure at both ends, giving and receiving, mutual frissions of ecstasy. We quickly dissolved into mindless gratification; I didn't know where his body ended and mine began and I didn't care.

I daresay he was more experienced than me, for I felt my self rushing headlong toward the zenith. I somehow managed to gasp, "Jack, I'm going to, going to" His response was to suck harder until I shuddered my delight down his throat. He swallowed.

I had wisely removed his manhood from my mouth during my ecstasy. I now began to suck it again with feverish intensity. He involuntarily spasmed and bucked his hips; his gasps and groans giving me all the encouragement I needed. Then "Ohhh! Shade, Shade, I'm close, I'm close, Oh gawd!" Hot salty spurts filled my mouth. I savored the creamy texture for a second, then swallowed.

Quickly I scrambled back around to face my gasping lover and drawing him into an embrace, we kissed deeply. We then lay, spent, in each other's arms for many long minutes.

I had finally got what I wanted, a coupling with Jack where we had come together as equals. I had also quite possibly gotten a gourmand's ultimate sexual experience for Jack and I had combined good food with good sex.

The remaining food on our bodies had begun to dry and it ... itched. We began brushing flakes of food (fooddruff?) off of ourselves and one another, but it was not enough.

"Aw, hell," Jack growled, "this is going nowhere. You got a shower?"

"No, I am a confirmed tubber."

"Eewww! Who wants to sit around in their own bath water?"

The barbarian! "My dearest Jack, that is precisely the point of a bath."

"Okay, whatever. I need one. Wouldn't hurt you either."

I led Jack from my ruined dining room to the bathroom. (As we passed by the parlor, I made a point of showing my greatest trophy, one of Jay Garrick's winged helmets.) I as I said earlier, I am a confirmed tub aficionado, and spared no expense (keep in mind  other people's money) in equipping myself with **The Tub**. (I wonder what Jay would do if he knew I had spent the bulk of the proceeds from several jewel heists thusly.)

Fitted with an ingenious heating system (nothing so disgruntling as hot water and a frigid tub) it was carved from an immense block of slate gray marble set in a black dais. (The rest of bath was accented in deep jewel tones, mainly garnet and sapphire.)

"I present to you: The Tub." I made a show of bowing slightly as if immaculately attired, not naked with blood pudding and potatoes in my hair.

"Wowww ...."

Crossing to the tub, Jack actually caressed the gold plated, onyx inlaid fixtures before turning on the water. Clouds of steam soon filled the air. Jack played about a bit with my jars of bath condiments before selecting a bath salt that was a favorite of mine...rosemary and lavender. We sat on the sill and waited for the tub to fill. When it had reached sufficient capacity, Jack eased his body into the steaming water. He sighed heavily. I watched his body through the ripples of water. I could never grow tired of watching his body, it was very beautiful. Oscar would've worshiped him just out of aesthetic principle alone.

"Whadda ya' waitin' for?!" Jack's hand shot out and pulled me into the tub. Water splashed everywhere. I sat on his lap. He put his arms around me.

"You really are intent on ruining my house, aren't you? Pray don't go near the candles and matches."

He kissed me on the back of the neck. Things could've gotten quite sexual right there but for the debilitating heat of the water.

We soaked for quite some time, and as the water cooled, shampooed each other's hair and soon mashed potatoes and blood pudding clouded the waters while spinach leaves and raisins(!!) bobbed on the waves. Drawing me into his embrace Jack plucked one of the latter and fed it to me. I tried to do the same, but he refused. He began to kiss me and nuzzle me gently on the neck, knowing what it was he wanted, I felt the first stirrings of eros. Jack reached over and began draining the tub, I started to climb out but he pushed me back down.

"I've never done it in a tub before."

"Oh." Neither had I. (I actually blushed at the thought!  horrors!)

He grinned devilishly. "Done it in the shower on several occasions. Several _memorable_ occasions." I got the hint; Jack was concerned about my hygiene and wanted me to join him for his morning shower some day soon. He closed the drain and drew me into his arms, gently kissing my cheek, working his way over to my mouth.

We kissed and caressed one another for many minutes and then Jack shifted his position, and I, knowing what he wanted, adjusted accordingly. He drove into me slowly, causing me to groan in delight. He pumped me with long, sensuous strokes. Waves of pleasure coursed through my hips.

He could not stroke me, as he needed one arm to hold my slippery body in place and the other to brace himself, but the whole experience of his stroking in and out of me was enough to stoke the fires of my passion. I felt the release building. Jack's breathing had become more ragged, his thrusts increased in force and tempo. Then, with a loud cry, he forced his awesome length to its fullest extent in me, and I could feel his hot jets. Gasping, I exploded into the tepid waters of the tub.

He kissed me once and stepped out of the tub. Winding a bath sheet about his lean hips, he said, "I'll be back in a minute. I've gotta check my phone  see if it still works."

"Jack, if there aren't  if there aren't any messages...stay the night?"

"Yes." He smiled at me in a heart-meltingly gentle way, his mother's smile. (I had met her once, briefly.)

When he left the room, I pulled the drain, stepped out of the tub, wound a bath sheet around my hips (not quite so lean as Jack's but nothing to be ashamed of) and hoped.

Jack returned with a smile on his face. I kissed him, then took his hand and silently led him to the bedroom.

My bed is a work of art. I didn't sleep in it for many years after Marguerite's death, but I could not bring my self to destroy or sell it. It features two swans, swooping, one of light wood (probably oak) and the other of deeply stained teak. Their uplifted wings (with each feather clearly detailed) form the headboard. The eye of the "white" swan is jade, while the "black" swan has a black opal. It is also a four poster bed, hung with midnight blue gauze.

Jack's sudden intake of breath when he saw it let me know better than words spoken how much he appreciated its beauty. Then a calculating gleam entered his eye.

"Forget it Jack. It's not for sale," I deadpanned. He laughed in reply.

We drew back the covers, and I turned out the lights while he climbed into bed.

We kissed each other and ran our hands over each others bodies, too spent for any further passion, but wanting closeness. He began to take me into his arms, but I pushed out of his embrace. "Jack, please. I'd like to hold you for once."

Pause. A sigh. "Oh, okay."

I curled my arm around his waist. Within minutes he settled into the steady even breathing of sleep. In my mind's eye, I pictured his sleeping face  a big little boy's face, not a care in the world. A slight smile would curve his lips.

I know some day, and probably soon, Jack will find the woman who captures his heart. Or, barring that, in a few short years (by the way I reckon time) he will become old, too old for loving, and die.

But for now, I had  if not love  affection, and I had someone in my arms again, if only for a little while.


End file.
